Zeppelin Jagers
by Chris2214
Summary: A steampunk novella that follows the struggle of a young fighter pilot as he endeavors to protect his homeland from seemingly unstoppable zeppelin raids.


**Zeppelin Jagers**

Zero.

That's how many zeppelins Wilhelm's staffel had destroyed in eight months of fruitless patrols, failure, heart-breaking loss, anger, and defeat. Zeppelin jagers they had been called, a crack geschwader assembled from the best fighter pilots in all of Germania, tasked to destroy the zeppelin scourge that was tearing the country apart, devastating both civilian and military targets alike.

They had failed.

Even the mighty Kronberg, the capital, had been mostly destroyed by the high-explosive ordinance of the zeppelins. Debris from the shattered buildings littered the once-proud streets, making normal travel nearly impossible and choking the life out of the city. Other large cities, Norstorn, Trinnhiem, Volksburg, were gone, blasted to nothingness.

Wilhelm's staffel should have prevented this.

They failed.

The citizens of Germania huddled in their bomb shelters and prayed for a miracle, prayed for deliverance. No one answered them. Morale teetered on a knife edge.

Many of the destitute and now homeless refugees had taken to the countryside in sheer desperation. The Imperial Government of Germania was woefully unprepared to care for the staggering amount of people displaced by the zeppelin's bombing raids. Not that it would have mattered; many a relief column was blotted from existence by a vengeful zeppelin. Thousands of people, without shelter or provisions, froze to death in the icy winter that gripped the country. The death toll was truly horrifying.

Ironically, the winter was the only thing protecting them now. The mountain passes were frozen thick and clogged with meters of ice-bound snow. No army, no matter how powerful, could hope to force a crossing. But when the springs came, the passes would thaw and clear, opening the door for the armoured might of Britannia to invade the southern reaches of Germania with its army of walkers, six-legged cruisers, and land dreadnaughts. Germania's army was similarly armed, but it was growing smaller every day, hounding constantly by the accursed zeppelins. It wouldn't be enough to stem the tide.

But it was never supposed to be enough. That was the job of Wilhelm and his squad mates. Drive the zeppelins from the sky and buy some breathing space for the Kaiser and his generals to launch a counter stroke to reverse the fortunes of war.

And for eight months, nothing had changed. The zeppelins continued their raids; practically at will, while the zeppelin jagers employed every stratagem at their disposal, but to no avail. Finally, the people had begun to doubt the zeppelin jagers and even curse them for their failure.

They use to be heroes.

Hauptmann Gunter, their leader with fourteen kills to his name-no zeppelins of course-and a knack for flying was belittled; his name used as an indication of bad luck. Kurt, a soft-spoken lad of only nineteen years, but a natural talent in a plane, cursed as a boy who had no business flying. Otto, loud and boisterous and full of good humor, a skilled pilot, one of the best. He wasn't very jovial these days and drank too much, the better to drown out his critics. And Fritz, the ladies' man, a real charmer with those dazzling blue eyes of his. Not even the poorest and ugliest wench would touch him now. His heart-melting eyes were dull and listless. Sebastian, another fine chap once you got to know him, was mocked whenever he dared showed his face in public, which wasn't much these days. And Vernen, happy, smiling Vernen. He hardly smiled anymore and spoke even less, usually in clipped monosyllables.

And many other good men besides these, but they were dead now, dead and forgotten.

Wilhelm. He held the rank of Oberleutnant, serving as Gunter's second-in-command. He had seventeen kills. He was the golden boy, the crusading hero of Germania, the handsome knight sent from heaven to banish the foes of the people. He would not fail, the people said to themselves and indeed, hadn't Wilhelm promised victory eight months ago when the zeppelin jagers were formed on direct order of the Kaiser?

Young boys copied his mannerisms and memorized his speeches, cutting them from the newspapers and hanging them above their beds so they could study the hallowed words all night. Toddlers played with toy airplanes painted in his colors, bright silver with blue wingtips. Maids taped his picture to their mirrors, hearts fluttering every time they stole a glance at his chiseled features.

That was all gone now. The glitter, the banquets, the adoring crowds. All blown away in the crucible of war and an enemy he could not defeat.

Wilhelm sighed heavily, letting the newspaper slide from his fingertips and onto the wooden floor of the mess hall. A fire burned dimly in the hearth, but its warmth did nothing to melt the coldness in Wilhelm's heart. He looked around. Otto was here, as usual, getting stone drunk, probably on his second bottle of schnapps by now. How that man was ever sober enough to fly a plane was a mystery to Wilhelm. Fritz and Sebastian sat at a low table playing cards, but neither showed any real interest in the game. Vernen huddled in an overstuffed leather chair, a thick cloak drawn around his thin body, staring vacantly into space. He had never been a big man and the rigors of war had ruthlessly purged his body of any excess fat. Kurt was probably sheltering in the barracks, sleeping or whatever else it was that he did during his free time. He knew Gunter would be in his office, poring over intelligence reports and struggling to concoct a plan that would finally bring down one of the hated zeppelins.

Wilhelm stood, stretched, and left the mess hall without a word, pushing open the wooden door. The frigid air hit him like a slap to the face, causing him to inhale sharply. It was cold. Too cold. His boots crunched through frost-covered grass and icy puddles. A few snowflakes drifted from the skies. Tomorrow the world would be white, buried beneath a fresh layer of snow.

He hunched his shoulders against the wind and shuffled towards one of the many large hangars that studded the airfield. In the pale moonlight, the hanger resembled the cave of some fell beast that was just waiting to be released into the wild.

That beast was the Griffon, the new biplane fighter planes granted to Wilhelm and his mates upon creation of the zeppelin jagers. The Griffon was a fine plane with a sleek, shark like nose, sturdy fuselage, rounded wingtips, and a tail that looked born for flight. It was the most beautiful thing Wilhelm had ever laid eyes upon and certainly the best aircraft Wilhelm had ever flown. Twin machine guns adorned its nose, giving the Griffon a bold, defiant look.

For Wilhelm, it was love at first sight.

He still loved it now, but the oppressive failure of the last eight months had driven the fire out of his soul. He loved his plane, but it wasn't the same. The simple, pure, and unadulterated joy of flying for flying's sake was gone. Nothing replaced it save for an empty, aching hollowness that could only be filled by putting down a zeppelin. Until that moment, everything else felt bland and boring like living in a palace made from fool's gold.

Wilhelm twisted the brass handle on the side door, forced to use his shoulder when the gears stuck in the cold. He stepped into a halo of warmth and momentarily froze, stunned by the heat. A grunt from one of the mechanics brought him back to reality. Stamping his feet and murmuring an apology, Wilhelm shut the door with a bang. The icy chill melted away.

A large steam boiler squatted in the center of the hanger, throwing out ample amounts of heat and light in equal measure. Half a dozen mechanics were nearby, wiping hands on oily rags, sorting tools, and checking airplanes for the umpteenth time.

Normally, Wilhelm would have been greeted cheerfully since he was a favorite of the mechanics. Instead, only silence welcomed him as the mechanics continued their work, scarcely aware of his presence. Wilhelm simply continued on to his plane. He didn't have anything to say anyway.

Dredd, his mechanic, stood patiently alongside Wilhelm's plane, fidgeting with an unseen part in the engine. His sleeves were rolled past his elbows, exposing thick, bulging forearms that dripped with sweat, muscles rippling. That man knew his way around a plane. Wilhelm trusted him; he had to, his own life depended on his plane functioning correctly.

"Everything looking good, Dredd?" he asked.

The mechanic flinched visibly and then looked up, startled. His eyes relaxed when he saw Wilhelm.

"Ah, Master Wilhelm, I did not hear you come in. My apologies."

Years ago, maybe even a decade or two, Dredd had worked as a mechanic for a count who insisted upon being referred to as "Master." Dredd had never lost the habit of addressing all superiors as such and after a few weeks even Wilhelm had given up trying to change Dredd's ways. It was just too ingrained.

But now, Wilhelm took it as a good omen that Dredd called him "Master." The war had changed everybody, except Dredd. From beginning to end he was still the same old humble mechanic whose entire life consisted of repairing machines and making them run smoothly.

"I patched up that hole in your upper starboard wing, but I had to replace two struts. One was obviously broken; the other would have broken the next time you flew. Good as new," he said, circling his thumb and forefinger in a gesture of perfection.

"My thanks, Dredd, your work is an example to us all."

Dredd blushed modestly. His expertly waxed handlebar mustache hid the corners of a smile.

"You are too kind Master; I only seek to do my duty."

"Nonsense, my plan would fall apart in mid-air if it weren't for you."

"That's certainly a risk," stated Dredd, matter-of-factly.

Eight months ago, Wilhelm would have laughed. Now he only offered a wry smile that he quickly wiped from his face. Dredd slid the engine cowling back into place.

"She'll be ready at dawn then?"

"Aye, Master, she is ready now."

"Good."

The conversation lapsed into silence, both men lost in their own thoughts. Dredd tinkered idly with a greasy wrench. Wilhelm flicked his eyes over his plane, marveling at its beauty. It served to dull the ache in his heart if only for a brief time. Five maybe ten minutes passed. Wilhelm turned to leave.

"Master…"

"Yes?"

Dredd's eyes bored into him, possessed with a sudden urgency. His mouth flattened into a pale slit.

"Please, get one tomorrow. By all that's holy, we can't take much more of this. The men," he waved vaguely at the other mechanics, "are on their last legs. A few talk of quitting and transferring out. Everyone else is thinking the same thing; they just don't have the courage to voice their thoughts, but its sill there all the same."

Wilhelm's eyes were downcast when he responded, his voice dry.

"I'll do my best."

"I know you will," said Dredd, voice brightening slightly.

"You won't leave will you?"

"Of course not, Master, someone has to fix your plane."

Wilhelm smiled forlornly.

"Glad to hear it."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Master."

Wilhelm left the warmth of the hangar and stumbled into the murderous cold. It was late and he needed to get to sleep if he wanted to be well rested for tomorrow's mission, but he found himself walking towards Gunter's office, the burning oil lamp visible through the tiny, ice-crested window.

He pushed open the door without knocking and slumped wearily in the closest chair. Gunter hardly looked up from the myriad of papers covering his wooden desk. A few books lay about, scattered like spent shell casings. A miniature two-legged walker stood on his desk next to a wind up airplane that could fly around the room and return to its landed spot on its own, if one wound the spring tight enough. A paneled picture frame held a photograph of Gunter's wife and young son.

"Wilhelm."

"Gunter."

Long ago they had agreed to dispense with the formalities of rank, at least when they were alone. The two shared a tight bond; just the type needed between a geschwader commander and his second. But now, the relationship almost worked in reverse, all of Gunter's frustrations and failings became Wilhelm's frustrations and failings.

"What news?"

Gunter muttered something under his breath.

"Just the usual. We're all doomed come springtime. The zeppelin jagers are a failure, some even want us disbanded."

Wilhelm groaned.

"Disbanded?"

Gunter nodded glumly.

"Aye. Court martialed too."

"Who said that?"

"Ah, you know, Reinholtz, that miserable old wretch who writes for The Chronicle. Says we should be ashamed of ourselves and some other assorted nonsense. I don't know how people put up with the constant drivel he spews out."

"I hope he gets arrested."

"For sedition? Me too, but it wouldn't help in the long run. What we really need…." His voice trailed off.

Neither of them wanted to say it.

A zeppelin; that's what they needed.

Slowly dying embers crackled on the weak fire. Gunter gave one of the logs a few jabs with the iron poker, coaxing it back to life until a few tender orange flames branched out. He returned the poker to its stand.

"Do you even read the intelligence reports anymore?"

"Not really," replied Wilhelm.

Gunter chuckled mirthlessly, his face drawn.

"Good, you probably would have given up long ago if you did." Gunter scooped something off his desk. "As you know, we have been able to identify a fair number of Britannic zeppelins. Apparently somebody has been keeping track of all these sightings, somebody inside the Air Intelligence. Reportedly, they have confirmed the existence of forty-seven zeppelins."

Wilhelm whistled through his teeth.

"And so far we haven't been able to shoot one down."

Wilhelm's jaw was set, his face firm. He was well aware of that.

"So even if we manage to destroy one, it…"

"Won't make one bit off a difference," finished Wilhelm, seeing the end of Gunter's statement before he could say the words.

"Precisely."

"So what do we do?"

Gunter turned again to his desk.

"Well, we need a victory, clearly. But we can't shoot down any old zeppelin, we need something big."

"One of the monarchs?" asked Wilhelm, speaking of the largest class of zeppelins in the Britannic fleet. Those vessels were truly gigantic and were also responsible for much of the damage wrought upon Germania. Knocking one of those out of the sky would certainly lift the spirits of the country.

"Not big enough. Besides, Britannia has seven of them."

"Shoot down all seven?" Wilhelm's mind was flooded with images of burning zeppelins, bombed out cities, and mountains of ash. "Quite an order."

"Not even that," replied Gunter, shaking his head slowly.

His second in command wrinkled his face, brow furrowed. "Then what?"

"Look at this." Gunter waved him over to his desk. The Hauptmann brushed a sheaf of papers aside and sent others cascading to the floor. He didn't seem to notice.

Wilhelm obeyed. He found himself looking at the blueprints of what promised to be a truly massive zeppelin. The hull alone was four-hundred meters in length from bow to stern and another one-hundred meters in height. The gondola, normally a small and cramped affair, was huge, stretching the entire length of the gargantuan airship. Four hulking engines, two on each side, gave it power; their propellers resembling oversized saw blades. Machine gun nests bristled all across the hull, covering all the weak points.

"What in heaven's name is this?"

"This is the Godhammer. Some spy of ours was able to secret away the plans, though I heard he paid for it with his life. This is the newest weapon in the Britannic arsenal."

"That's huge."

"It is. And its construction has been completed."

Gunter traced his finger along the length of the gondola.

"What's so different about this?"

"It's huge," replied Wilhelm.

"Not just that, it can carry its own fighter escorts."

"How many?"

"Forty. At least."

Wilhelm's jaw dropped.

"What's the bomb capacity?"

"Tons and tons. Ten, twenty, maybe more."

 _Godhammer_ was much more than another zeppelin. It was a floating fortress in the sky, an arms depot, bomb factory, and aerodrome, all rolled into one. It was the spear tip of an invasion.

Wilhelm, still utterly astonished, looked to Gunter for guidance. For the first time, he noticed the hellish gleam in his commander's eyes. Then he grasped what Gunter had been saying.

"You want to shoot it down!" blurted Wilhelm, surprised at his own words.

Gunter smiled grimly.

"Yes."

Wilhelm rocked back on his heels, stunned.

"You're mad! Did you see all those guns? Forty fighters? Forty!? We'd get blasted from the sky like a bunch of tiny insects. We wouldn't stand a chance."

"Do we have a choice?" asked Gunter, his smile gone. "The Godhammer is due to fly any day now. It has the range to reach Kronberg and the carrying capacity to level it for good. Can we let that happen, simply because we don't have a prayer against it?"

"No."

"Exactly. Not only would we save Kronberg, we would give the Kaiser a victory to be proud of. Even The Chronicle would rejoice. It's just the victory we need."

Wilhelm nodded sagely.

"How do you propose to bring it down?"

"Aside from ramming it? Well…"

"You have considered ramming a zeppelin just to bring it down?"

"Yes, and I would have rammed the one we fought last week if the bugger hadn't wrecked my horizontal stabilizer. You'd be in command now and we'd have at least one kill."

"No, no, I don't want that. Let's destroy it without blowing ourselves up."

"I would prefer that as well. Of course, the Godhammer is so huge, I'm not sure crashing a plane into it would be enough. Those new, self-sealing hydrogen tanks keep the leaks so controlled it's like trying to light a fire in a hurricane."

"The first spot I would hit would be the engines," said Gunter. "The Godhammer needs a lot of power to keep itself aloft and moving forward. Cripple one of those engines and it will flounder for sure. If you'll notice there aren't as many defensive guns to the rear. The props are too big. Can't fire for fear of hitting them."

"And if we can damage their control surfaces, I mean, that rudder is as big as a house, two houses probably, they will be in big trouble," added Wilhelm.

"Indeed."

"Now how exactly are we going to take out those engines?"

"Well, I have been studying all the possible gun mounts and weapons configurations and I believe the Godhammer has one weak spot." Gunter drew a circle directly behind the engines and rudder. "As I mentioned before, the props get in the way and by my calculations if you get within fifty meters of the tail, none of the guns on top can depress far enough to actually touch you. The guns on bottom can't reach either."

"Brilliant."

"Maybe, but the backwash from the props will be extremely difficult to fly in like going against a giant swirling headwind. Depending on how powerful the engines are, the backwash might actually push the plane back out of the dead zone and into the range of the guns. The window is only fifty meters and a plane might only be able to hold it for a few seconds. Then he gets blasted to scrap the moment he emerges from the dead zone."

Wilhelm frowned. "And we still have to manage with the fighter escorts."

"Correct."

The Oberleutnant rubbed his hands over his face.

"They thought of everything didn't they?"

"I'm afraid so, but the dead zone represents a chance for victory no matter how small. We must take it."

"But what about the fighters?"

"I've contacted Jasta Ten and Jasta Seven. They have agreed to keep half their planes available at all times and ready to fly with us on a moment's notice."

Wilhelm did some quick mental calculations.

"That's only twenty planes, including ours."

"I know, but it's the best I could do. If their full squads are there we will have nearly thirty planes. We are spread thin, Wilhelm, these two Jastas are the only ones close enough to help."

Both men stood in silence. A clock ticked nosily on the mantle. The icy wind howled against the frosty window.

"Let's pray it's enough."

"Aye, we should do that, Wilhelm."

"Goodnight, Gunter."

"Goodnight."

Wilhelm's mind was racing and he found himself lying on his bed unable to remember the walk over to the barracks. He stripped off his clothes, threw on a nightshirt, and slid under the covers. The bed was warm, a welcome protection from winter's fury outside.

He closed his eyes, but he knew he was hours away from sleep. It didn't come easy these days and it was often hours before his brain would quit and call it a day, allowing him to sleep. When he finally drifted into unconsciousness, he slept fitfully, dreaming of dead comrades, exploding zeppelins, a whole crowd of civilians laughing at him, his own plane falling apart around him, and a massive wave of darkness that swept over everything.

They attacked at dawn.

The warning klaxon jarred the entire base into wakefulness. Doors opened and slammed, mechanics wheeled fighter planes from their hangars, and pilots dressed hurriedly in the grayish half-light of the early dawn.

Wilhelm yanked on his thick uniform coveralls over his clothes and ran to the briefing room. Half the pilots were already there, including Gunter, who looked like he hadn't slept a wink. The blueprints of the _Godhammer_ were tacked to the wall. Gunter stood in front of expansive drawings, patiently waiting for the last of the pilots to arrive. No greetings were exchanged. No one had anything to say.

While he waited, Wilhelm gulped down a cup of ridiculously strong black coffee, scalding his tongue in the process, and ate a few saltine crackers, the only thing he ever felt like eating before a mission. The coffee burned through his gullet and into his stomach, banishing the last vestiges of sleep from his mind.

He saw Sebastian rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Vernen crushing his flying cap in his hands, young Kurt gingerly sampling his coffee, and Fritz drumming his fingers on the table. Only Otto was missing. He stumbled in a few seconds later, eyes bloodshot from excessive drinking and lack of sleep. He was obviously hung-over. The boozy aviator ignored the furious glare from Gunter and proceeded to down three cups of coffee in rapid succession. Otto collapsed into a chair and stared glumly at his squad mates, holding his aching head in his hands.

"Gentlemen, allow me to be brief because we haven't much time before the zeppelin passes us by. This is the Godhammer." Eyebrows rose at the name. "It's the largest zeppelin the world has ever seen and the newest weapon in the Britannic fleet. It can and will wreck Kronberg if we let it pass. Alone, it can alter the balance of the war."

Gunter quickly outlined its strengths and weakness and what he considered to be its one major flaw, the dead zone behind the engines. Hands shot up to ask questions, but there was no time to take any. With a hurried glance at his watch piece, a keep-sake from his wife, Gunter dismissed the men to their planes.

The forward scouts in the mountains had spotted the gargantuan zeppelin only minutes before, but it was traveling faster than what anyone thought possible. Gunter had already plotted an intercept course, but the zeppelin jagers would have to hurry to meet it.

Wilhelm sprinted to his plane alongside Gunter, booted feet flying over the icy ground.

"What of Jasta seven and ten?" he asked.

"I already contacted them. Jasta Seven is sending their whole geschwader. Jasta Ten is sending half."

Twenty-one planes.

"I hope it's enough."

"We'll find out, won't we?"

"Aye."

Wilhelm and Gunter separated, each going to their own planes. Dredd was waiting for Wilhelm, a wry grin creasing his face. Steely determination shone in his eyes.

"Everything's ready to go, Master Wilhelm." His breath frosted in the air.

"Excellent," said Wilhelm, hauling himself over the side of his plane and dropping into the cockpit. Priming the fuel injector and pumping the throttle, he flicked the engaging switch. The engine growled and the prop turned once and then stopped. He re-primed the fuel injector, but with less force to prevent flooding the engine with too much gasoline.

An iron grip clamped down on his shoulder, dragging his head around. It was Dredd. His eyes burned fiercely.

"Bring it down, Master Wilhelm. Bring it down and send those Britannia wretches packing." His face was taut. "I know you can do it."

Wilhelm's throat suddenly felt tight. All he could do was nod and hit the engaging switch again. Dredd clapped him on the back and stepped away from the plane. This time the engine started, sputtering to life a bit slow at first before growing to a roar. The young pilot eased open the throttle and pulled onto the snowy runway.

Thick oily fumes were in the air, mixing with the sweat of the ground crews and the fresh snow piled on the ground. The ice and snow covering the runway had been cleared by a bipedal work walker equipped with a steam shovel. The sturdy vehicle sat off to one side of the runway next to a snow bank it had pushed into place, cooling engine hissing gently.

Wilhelm pulled his goggles over his face and adjusted his flying cap for the final time. His silken scarf was bundled tightly about his neck. Thick leather gloves wrapped his fingers. His plane bumped over chunks of ice as he pulled onto the runway.

Gunter's forest green plane wheeled parallel to Wilhelm. The Hauptmann gave Wilhelm a brisk salute, which he returned. Then Gunter kicked open the throttle and his Griffon jerked forward, speeding down the runway. Wilhelm followed a second later.

His plane fishtailed a bit due to the ice, but careful manipulation of the rudders kept it straight. The buildings whizzed by, dark and blurry. The sun peeked over the horizon, bathing the sky in a golden glow. Wilhelm pulled back gently on his control stick and his plane lofted smoothly into the air.

He was at home.

His staffel quickly grouped into their formation, all seven of them. Kurt's plane painted a dazzling red and yellow, Vernen's a sky blue, black and white for Otto, solid scarlet for Fritz, deep blue and gold for Sebastian, and Wilhelm's own: gleaming silver with blue wingtips. They were still two pilots short of standard protocol, but no replacements had arrived yet. They headed south, aiming for a rendezvous point on their intercept course. Soon fourteen fuzzy black dots appeared to the east, silhouetted by the rising sun. That should be Jastas Seven and Ten. It was.

Only a few clouds dotted the sky, granting the zeppelin jagers excellent visibility. Their escorts buzzed alongside, engines growling and hearts thumping, eager to get on with it.

They didn't have to wait long.

A massive grey cloud streaked across the sky, faster than the others. Wilhelm looked again. That was no cloud; that was the _Godhammer_. The pilots of Germania were holding steady at two-thousand meters, but the ginormous zeppelin bearing down on them was almost a thousand meters higher. They immediately began to circle to gain altitude, spiraling upward quickly.

Wilhelm stole a glance at the _Godhammer_. Steel doors on the zeppelin's gondola were opening, winched apart by a steam engine. Fighter planes dropped out of the doors, tumbling for a hundred meters or so before gaining their equilibrium. There were forty at least. More spilled out. They angled straight for Wilhelm and his comrades, ugly brown fuselages staining the sky.

Wilhelm muttered darkly under his breath. Breaking through the fighter screen would be next to impossible. Knocking out one of the zeppelins engines went from beyond impossible to the realm of pure fantasy. Wishful thinking. A myth.

The zeppelin jagers' escorts pulled in front, forming a u-shape formation with their charges in the center. The Britannic fighters stormed forward. Guns opened up all around, crackling in the chill air and flinging smoldering cartridges from their stubby barrels. The two forces crashed into each other at full throttle. A fighter from Jasta seven collided with an Britannic biplane in a sickening crunch of splintering wood. Tension cables snarled the wings of both fighters, wrapped them together, and spun them out of control. They cartwheeled earthward, unable to escape the fatal embrace.

Aa Britannic fighter fell into a stuttering dive, tail shredded beyond repair. Planes twisted through the air and circled back on each other's tails, firing all the way. They danced together, weaving a haunting tapestry of fire and death.

Wilhelm stayed tight on Gunter's tail as they maneuvered through the raging dogfight. Looming directly ahead of them, the _Godhammer_ served as an appropriate backdrop to the savage fighting. A biplane marked with Britannic colors dove past Wilhelm, nearly clipping his wingtip. He jinked out of the way with a flick of the rudder.

Three more fighters were on his tail. Another two latched onto Gunter. The zeppelin jagers broke apart, hoping to draw some of the fighters away and even the odds. Otto corkscrewed his plane around wildly. Wilhelm briefly wondered if Otto's acrobatics were inspired by his drunkenness or flying skill. In any case, it worked because two of the fighters left Wilhelm and went diving after Otto. He saw Sebastian throw his plane into a loop. The Britannic biplane chasing him was unable to repeat the maneuver and pulled out half way, leveling off before it stalled out. A passing Jasta ten fighter gave the Britannic plane a burst with his machine guns, ripping holes in the wings. The enemy plane fell, but the pilot recovered soon enough and climbed back into the fight.

Despite the freezing temperature of the thin air, Wilhelm was sweating beneath his suit. Planes were flying at him from all angles. Bullets hissed in the air. He saw a biplane burst into flames, but he couldn't make out the markings to determine if it was a friend or foe. He prayed it was an enemy.

Wilhelm jerked his head over his shoulder. A snarling Britannic fighter sat right behind, guns winking orange. Fabric tore on his upper right wing. He heard the guns a second later. Wilhelm whipped his plane to the left and down and rounded out the split-s with a shallow half loop. The enemy overshot and flew past him. Wilhelm snapped his plane back around, gritting his teeth against the gee forces, and scanned the sky for Gunter.

His Hauptmann was having problems of his own and was trying to shake off two fighters. Wilhelm quickly flew to his aid. Gunter had given very strict orders to conserve as much ammo as possible for the zeppelin so Wilhelm would have make his shots count.

Gunter was tossing his plane around like a madman, making it difficult for the two planes behind him trying to line up a shot. The three planes rolled and dove; climbed and fell. One of the trailing planes squeezed off a burst, but Gunter evaded it with a tight barrel roll, rolling perfectly over the stream of lead as if he knew exactly where the bullets were going to hit. It was masterful. In all their time together, Wilhelm had never seen Gunter fly like this.

Wilhelm had the range now. He checked his six. Planes were all around and some were pursuing him, but they weren't in range yet. He carefully lined up his crosshairs on one of the brown enemy planes, who remained oblivious to his presence.

His thumb tapped the firing stud for the briefest of seconds, drawing an extremely short burst from his guns. His fuselage shook in mock sympathy and he felt the recoil in the pit of his stomach like a fist to the gut.

The Britannic biplane slewed left and turned a crazy roll before diving out and away. Wilhelm couldn't tell if he had hit his target, but he had clearly spooked the enemy in any case. The remaining foe was stuck like glue on Gunter's tail.

Wilhelm banked right and climbed, trading speed for altitude. Then he pushed his nose over, reversing the exchange and gunning his engine. The enemy plane grew in size as Wilhelm zoomed closer. He squeezed the trigger.

He knew hit this plane for sure because he heard bullets crunching through wood. It was an unmistakable sound and one that all pilots loved and feared in equal measure.

The enemy pilot yawed his plane back and forth, killing his speed and making himself a difficult target. Wilhelm tracked his movement carefully with eyes, but kept his own plane in a straight line. He saw the pilot turn around, revealing a pale, goggled face. Wilhelm's hand tightened on the trigger. The enemy plane turned hard and away. They were clear.

The _Godhammer_ lay directly to their left off their port wings. Gunter began to climb. Wilhelm followed, understanding his commander's actions. They would dive on the zeppelin from above. Defensive machine guns from the mighty craft were firing now, opening up on anything within range. He could hear the bullets zinging the air around his plane.

Then another pair of Britannic biplanes flew in to attack Gunter. Both Wilhelm and Gunter were climbing and their planes were shedding speed quickly. Guns crackled. His heart skipped a beat when he heard Gunter get hit. The Hauptmann's plane wavered a bit, but held steady. Wilhelm was about to dive on their attackers when he saw Gunter stretch his hand out and point the other way. He was pointing at the zeppelin. He wanted Wilhelm to attack it alone.

Wilhelm hesitated, torn between his duty to obey his commander and his desire to protect him. Gunter pointed again, more forcibly this time, and duty won out. With enemy guns stuttering in his ears, Wilhelm slammed his left rudder pedal and yanked his joystick over, flipping his craft starboard over port. He angled his nose steeply.

Casting one last, fearful glance over his shoulder, Wilhelm revved his engine. Gunter was still alive, plane pitching up and down madly. The two attackers swooped about, guns chattering. Gunter fell into an intentional spin. The Britannic planes followed.

Wilhelm pushed his commander's plight from his mind and concentrated on his descent. If he could dive in right behind the zeppelin's massive tail, he could level out inside the dead zone and hopefully wreck one of the zeppelin's engines in the process. His altimeter spun counterclockwise, needles sweeping away the passing meters in mere seconds. The sound of his engine grew to a roar, reverberating loudly through his head. His scarf tugged at his neck; the wind whipped it over his shoulders as it whistled by his plane.

Gunfire hissed over his wings and buzzed dangerously close to his face. Those gunners were good. His altimeter spun. Almost there…

A sharp _crack_ like an ax splitting a log, drew a shudder from his plane. Something passed by close to his head and Wilhelm flinched away. When he opened his eyes, no one was shooting at him. Wilhelm had entered the dead zone.

He quickly banked to the left, lining up his nose on one of the four aft-mounted engines. For the first time he noticed the severe winds buffeting his plane. His speed was dropping precipitously. This was the worst headwind he had ever flown against. Already he was running out of space so he aimed his crosshairs square for one of the engines and squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

No stutter of guns, no jarring clank from a jammed round, and no buzzing whine from a shorted wire. His guns simply refused to fire. A second later he saw the cause. The burst of fire that had struck his plane had crippled his guns. Their box-like breeches were squashed and hanging open; ammo vents slack jawed like dead cattle.

Wilhelm slapped his thigh with a gloved hand and shouted in rage against the Britannic gunners. Here he was, sitting pretty and primed to kill and absolutely weaponless. If the situation hadn't been so serious, it would have been comical.

He craned his neck over his shoulder and spotted Gunter, who had shaken his pursers and was beginning his attack dive. Gunter would need a distraction if he was to reach the dead zone unscathed.

Intending to provide one, Wilhelm kicked his left rudder, whipping his Griffon out of the dead zone, and into the gunners' arcs of fire. Shells crackled in his wake. He rolled violently, mashing his rudder to add extra venom to the maneuver.

Leveling out, he checked his six and Gunter's progress. The former was clear and the latter was progressing smoothly from inside the dead zone. Evidently, Gunter had managed the dive without injury and his guns were barking. Bullets slammed into the engines and tail section, ripping fabric and pinging off metal.

But Gunter was struggling. The hulking propellers had changed their pitch, increasing the speed of the air pushing against Gunter's plane. The noble green craft shook in the sudden gale, trembling like a leaf.

Wilhelm shouted encouragement even though he knew no one in the world could possibly hear him. Then he saw the enemy fighter bearing down on him from head on. Wilhelm rolled upside down and prepared to dive away. Or at least that's what he looked like he was going to do. He waited until the Britannic plane nosed over, gleefully pursing what he thought was an enemy with an exposed tail. Then Wilhelm jammed his joy stick to the floor except he was upside down so the action sent his craft zooming heavenward. He flew straight over the surprised Britannic pilot, who had already begun his dive.

The enemy pilot was too heavily committed to his dive and he couldn't level off immediately for fear of tearing his wings apart with the gee forces. It would be several hundred meters before he could threaten Wilhelm again. Wilhelm turned his plane around.

The _Godhammer_ sailed along to his left as untroubled by the attacks as an elephant by a swarm of fleas. The iron gondola hung below the silvery hull suspended on huge chains, viewing ports well- armoured and thick. An attack upon the gondola itself, the nerve center of the _Godhammer_ , had been ruled out by Gunter. Its creators had laced every possible attack vector with an endless array of guns and the shielding was just too thick. Any attack would have been suicide.

What Wilhelm saw next drew a gasp of horror from his lips. Gunter had almost been blown free of the dead zone, but he wasn't diving clear. He was maintaining altitude and still trying to bring down one of the engines. They must have been armoured because his bullets were having little discernible effect, but Gunter didn't quit.

"No!" yelled Wilhelm. "Get clear, break off!"

He had to make himself a distraction, provide a ruse, anything. To this end, he flew directly at the tiny silhouetted forms of the top gunners protecting the tail of the _Godhammer_. Maybe they would shoot at him instead.

The sound of metal crunching wood reached his ears. It wasn't his plane. Gunter's plane trembled under the onslaught, finally pushed free from the dead zone and caught in a storm of lead. Gaping holes appeared his wings with an audible _rip_ and a wing strut snapped in two. He had held his position for too long and was traveling in a more or less straight line, making himself an easy target. His engine coughed and sputtered, releasing a burp of smoke.

Flames lapped along his exhaust manifolds. The black smoke became constant. His entire plane shuddered.

"Jump!" urged Wilhelm, praying that he would see the white cylinder of a parachute blossom somewhere beneath him. To his amazement, Gunter kept his plane aloft and by some other cunning means was still firing. His admiration for his commander increased tenfold.

Gunter's plane exploded.

A searing orange fireball stabbed into Wilhelm's eyes. He blinked and saw the after image burned onto his corneas. The guttering ball of fire plummeted earthward, a streak of orange against the virgin white snow below. No parachute showed itself.

Wilhelm's heart turned to ash in his chest and his hands dropped heavily to his sides. Part of him refused to believe the inevitable and he continued searching for a parachute, but to no avail. Gunter was dead.

His goggles turned blurry as they filled with hot tears of rage. He tipped the bottoms away from his face and dumped the moisture, which quickly froze into tiny ice crystals. He clamped the goggles back over his eyes.

Circling around, he put the zeppelin off his left wing, though he was flying towards the bow and not the stern. Another part of his mind, his deeper consciousness, was choking on waves of grief, but for the rest of him sorrow would come later. All he had left was a terrible anger.

Wilhelm pulled closer to the _Godhammer_ , heedless to the danger it represented and yanked out his sidearm. It was a pointless gesture, but he didn't care.

"No, no, no, no…" he screamed, emptying his gun into the hull of the zeppelin. He quickly exhausted his pistol's ammunition, but he pulled the trigger an additional fourteen times before he realized the gun wasn't firing.

Bullets riddled his wings and fuselage, sounding like a steam drill to pounding the nails into a coffin lid. Self-preservation, the most basic instinct of all, took over, and Wilhelm nosed over in a spiraling dive.

His squad mates might be able to launch an attack, but Wilhelm had seen the engines and how they had withstood Gunter's fire. Any further attacks would be a waste of lives. He pulled a flare pistol out from his thigh pocket, pointed it skyward, and fired. A burning flare, bright and scarlet, the color of shed blood, arced into the sky, signaling the retreat.

The pilots of Germania, what was left of them anyways, followed the order and withdrew in a series of gee-inducing dives. No Britannic fighters made any attempt to pursue.

Wilhelm pulled into a bedraggled formation with his plane in the lead-an unfamiliar position- and counted the cost. Besides Gunter, all of the other zeppelin jagers had survived. He didn't know how many had seen Gunter's demise, but they surely all realized it by now.

Jasta Ten had lost two of five. Wilhelm winced, despite his own grief. Jasta Seven had lost five out of nine, over half their staffel.

Their flight home passed too quickly. The previously beautiful sky now looked bloody and sullen. Everything lacked color. The snow was grey and lifeless. Wilhelm and his squad mates landed on the ice-clogged field, though the work walker had cleared it again in their absence, and taxied to their hangars. Almost unconsciously, Wilhelm looked for Gunter since they usually parked their airplanes together. The action brought a fresh wave of grief over Wilhelm. He killed his engine and sat in the cockpit, lacking the energy to move.

When Dredd found him, Wilhelm was still sitting in the cockpit, weeping uncontrollably. Dredd put his meaty hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry Master, I'm so sorry." He stopped. The normally unflappable Dredd choked back a sob. Gunter was beloved by all. Dredd silently inspected the damage to Wilhelm's plane. It was extensive.

Wilhelm removed his cap and tear-streaked goggles, dropping them between his feet. He turned to face Dredd.

"He just blew up, Dredd. Blew up! I couldn't… We tried everything…" his voice faltered. He leaned forward and rested his forehead against the lip of his cockpit. "He just blew up…" Tears sprinkled the floor of the cockpit.

Many of the other pilots still sat in their planes. Otto was shuffling miserably to the mess hall, preparing to bury his sorrow beneath liters of alcohol. That was probably the sensible thing to do, but Wilhelm had no stomach for drink. All he wanted was to be alone. He decided to crawl back to his barracks and hide where no one could find him.

He climbed wearily from his plane, finding suddenly that his arms lacked strength. Dredd helped him clamber down from the wing. He began to walk towards his room, but stopped after a few steps. The press would want to hear about this.

"Dredd?"

"Yes, Master?"

"If anyone from the press arrives wanting to ask questions, tell them to go jump in a lake."

Dredd nodded, unable to speak.

Wilhelm continued walking to the barracks, hardly noticing his surroundings or the bitter cold. Once inside, he slammed the door behind and slumped to the floor with his back against the wall; not taking the time to undress. Every time he closed his eyes he could see Gunter's exploding plane on the back of his eyelids.

Wilhelm was lost somewhere between horror and nightmare, pursued by all manner of foes, and forced to watch Gunter's plane explode again and again. It looked the same every time, bright, orange, and world ending. His own plane was absolutely riddled with shot and yet he always survived just long enough to witness Gunter's death.

He even crashed his pane into the zeppelin once, only for the back end to blow out, and Gunter die an instant later, all under his watchful eyes. A gang of newspaper men followed him through the sky, hurling questions and accusations at him. Wilhelm even recognized Reinholtz, that wretch who authored _The Chronicle_. He also saw the Kaiser, who stripped him personally of all his medals and rank; they were in the Imperial Palace and an artist had painted a mural of Gunter's exploding plane on a nearby wall. Then the Kaiser laughed at him.

A gunshot jerked him to wakefulness. Wilhelm's eyes shot open with a start. He was lying on the barracks floor in a puddle of his own tears, still wearing his uniform and boots. It was dark in the barracks and no light streamed in through the windows, meaning it must be night. How long had he lain there he did not know.

His muscles were sore and cramped from lying in such an odd position. He stretched. All the events of yesterday came rushing back in a heart-racking second. No tears fell; his eyes were raw and bloodshot, unable to produce any more.

A crack ripped over the aerodrome. Wilhelm sat bolt upright with a sickening lurch. _Someone had just fired a gun in the middle of the night_. His mind racing, he stood unsteadily to his feet. A sudden jolt of adrenaline burned in his veins.

His door banged open.

"Oberleutnant Wilhelm?"

"Yes," he said shakily, turning to face the speaker. It was Sebastian.

"Sir, its Kurt…" Sebastian left off, leaving Wilhelm to guess the rest.

Wilhelm's heart sank to his boots.

"Don't tell me…" he hoped against hope.

"Afraid so, sir. We just received word ourselves. The Godhammer," he winced when he said it, "went on to bomb Kronberg."

"And?"

"Kurt's parents were killed in the bombing."

Wilhelm pushed past Sebastian and into the frosty air. He began to run in the direction of Kurt's room. Sebastian grabbed his arm and hauled him back.

"Sir. Don't."

Sebastian looked at the floor when he spoke next.

"He's dead, sir. That gunshot was his."

Wilhelm collapsed to his knees, falling into the snow. This was too much. His breath misted into the air, short and ragged. How much would this war take from him before it was finished? When would it end? He remained on his knees for a second longer before standing. He was in command now. He had to take action to prevent further loss. It's what Gunter would have done.

"Sebastian, surrender your sidearm," Wilhelm said, holding out his hand.

Sebastian's eyes widened at the implications.

"But sir…" he protested.

"Give me your firearm, soldier, or promise me you won't kill yourself."

His answer was immediate.

"You have my word, Oberleutnant."

"Good, now wake the others. Take their weapons and bring them to my room."

"Yes, sir," Sebastian said, saluting.

"Make it quick," Wilhelm called after him.

Wilhelm made his way to the mess hall where he knew he would find Otto. Blinking, he saw Gunter's exploding plane again. He pushed open the door and his nostrils were immediately assaulted by the heavy reek of alcohol, making him gag. He twisted the screw on the oil lamp by the door, bathing the interior in harsh yellow light.

Wedged up against the bar and a corner of the wall, Otto sat forlornly, surrounded by a glass mountain of schnapps and liquor bottles. His eyes were half closed, but Wilhelm knew he was awake. Otto still wore his uniform with his gun holstered in his thigh pocket. His hand was only inches away from the firearm.

Wilhelm approached the heavily drunk aviator carefully.

"Otto, listen to me, there's been a situation."

Otto's head snapped upright and his eyes flew open. He drew his gun, pointing it squarely at Wilhelm's chest. His eyes were bloodshot, but shone with a terrible, cruel light. His face was haggard.

"Stay away from me!" he screamed. "Stay away you Britannic swine!"

Otto climbed swiftly to his feet.

For someone so drunk, his body was reacting quite well and he controlled the pistol with ease. Wilhelm had no doubt that Otto would be able to hit him.

"Otto, it's me Wilhelm, no need to fear…"

Otto cut him off again.

"You Britannic dog! You killed him! You killed him!" He cocked the pistol.

"Easy now, easy."

Otto's eyes suddenly focused-as well as a drunken man can focus his eyes- and he lowered his pistol.

"What is it?" he asked, words slurring terribly.

"Give me your weapon."

"Oh. This?" he asked, holding his pistol up as if viewing it for the first time. He tossed it to Wilhelm, carelessly.

"Tell me, is it all true?" Otto asked.

"Is what true?"

"The mission, is Gunter dead?"

Wilhelm nodded, unable to answer. "Yes," he croaked, finally, his voice edged with sadness.

Otto just stood there silently. Wilhelm thought he had passed out on his feet or something until he realized that Otto was crying softly. Otto raised a bottle to his lips. He swallowed once and then fainted, his body finally overwhelmed by grief and the sheer amount of booze he had consumed.

Wilhelm shut off the oil lamp and left Otto lying on the floor. Sebastian was waiting for him outside. He held several pistols in his arms.

"All of them?"

"Yes, sir."

Sebastian dutifully handed the firearms to Wilhelm.

"How's Otto?" he asked.

Wilhelm waited a second before replying.

"Bad. I think he was hallucinating. It was more than simple drunkenness."

"I wish I were too."

"Wish that you were hallucinating?" asked Wilhelm, surprised.

"Yes, and that this was all some ugly nightmare that I would wake up from."

Wilhelm grunted.

"It is a nightmare."

The pair separated. Gunter's plane exploded with every step. Wilhelm pushed open the door to his room in the barracks, threw the guns on his bed, and collapsed to the floor, suddenly bone weary. He stared at the ceiling, heart sick, and knew that he would not sleep anymore that night.

Dawn's shy fingers poked into Wilhelm's room. He was awake, bloodshot eyes gazing vacantly into space. There was a knock at his door. He ignored it. His door opened a crack, throwing a shaft of light across the floor, meeting with the dawn's rays.

"Sir…" It was Sebastian.

"What is it?" asked Wilhelm, his voice rough. He couldn't remember the last time he had drunk anything.

"Someone is here to see you. A woman. It's Gunter's wife, sir."

Wilhelm groaned. He stood to his feet and scooped up a nearby mirror and examined his face. Stubble lined his chin, which was painted with whitish streaks of dried sweat. He smelt like a pig sty. He was in no condition to greet a lady.

"Give me twenty minutes."

"Yes, sir." Sebastian left.

Wilhelm pulled a cord over his bed, ringing a bell. A minute or two later a maid entered his room. Her grey hair was pulled into a ragged bun and her black uniform was wrinkled. She obviously hadn't slept much either.

"Fill the wash basin, please," he said.

She nodded and went to fetch some water. Within a few minutes, the wash basin was filled with lukewarm water and a fresh towel was laid out.

"And wash this uniform when I'm done with it."

Once the maid had left the room, Wilhelm yanked off his clothes and plunged his body into the bath. The water wasn't exactly warm, but he didn't care. Using a bar of rye soap, he scrubbed himself down and cleansed his well-muscled frame of all the accumulated dirt and filth. Then he toweled off, shaved, and dressed in a clean uniform.

He found himself standing outside the door to Gunter's office, staring at his dead commander's name plate. Hauptmannn Gunter Dormann it read in flowing gold script. Was it just a few nights ago they had stood together in this office and plotted strategy? It felt like a lifetime had passed since then. With a heavy heart he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The office was exactly as he left it. He half expected to see Gunter sitting behind the desk in his big leather chair. Instead there was a lady standing in front of the desk, clothed in a black dress that touched the floor. Her back was to the door. A black hat with a thin veil covered her face. A young, blond- headed child was playing at her feet. She turned at the sound of the opening door.

"Frau," said Wilhelm, bowing slightly.

The woman extended one gloved hand and lifted her veil with the other. They shook. Her hand was warm, but it trembled in his grip.

"Oberleutnant Wilhelm," he added.

"Frau Dormann, but you may call me Evelyn."

The women's hair was blonde just like the child, identifying her as the mother. Her startling blue eyes were framed nicely by her aquiline face, but they possessed a stark grief. High cheekbones gave the lady a noble appearance. She was a beautiful woman, there was no hiding that.

Her lips quivered when she spoke.

"I came here to collect my husband's belongings. And to learn how it happened. I found the newspapers accounts to be insufficient."

Wilhelm smiled wryly.

"They always are," he replied.

She nodded, eyes imploring him to begin his story. He didn't know where exactly to begin.

"Well," he started, "we may as well go to the very beginning. If you look over to this wall, you will see the schematics for a massive zeppelin, the _Godhammer_. It's well defended, but it has a weak spot or at least we thought it did. You see," he pointed to the tail, "the propellers here are quite large and the machine guns on top cannot depress their barrels far enough to cover everything for fear of hitting the blades." Wilhelm paused, feeling extremely odd explaining military tactics to a woman. In all the history of Germania such an occurrence had probably almost never happened. Women weren't even allowed in the Army let alone made privy to military planning.

"Where's Papa?" said the child, innocent blue eyes looking at his mother.

"He's flying," she replied, hand to her throat to stifle a cry.

The child appeared satisfied at his mother's answer and resumed his play.

Wilhelm resumed his explanation, heart sinking the further he got along.

"We know the Godhammer would wreak havoc on Kronberg if it got through and that we had to stop it. We also were in desperate need of a victory, any victory. This would have killed two birds with one stone, you know?"

The woman nodded.

"Anyway, they attacked at dawn. Or you could have gathered as much from the papers." Then Wilhelm realized he hadn't even read the papers or anything of military value since returning from the fateful mission. "Speaking of the attack, how bad was the bombing?"

Gunter's wife cleared her throat and responded as best she could.

"Seven thousand casualties, at least." Wilhelm winced. "The fires are still out of control."

He wiped a hand over his brow.

"Worse than I thought."

"Where's Papa?" interrupted the child, growing bored of his play toy.

"He's flying, Holger, like I said before."

The child, Holger, spoke again.

"But he was flying yesterday, Mama."

She bent down and tussled her son's hair.

"Papa is keeping us safe. He has to fly every day to protect us."

The child examined his shoe for a moment.

"But when's Papa coming back?"

Gunter's wife looked at Wilhelm, begging for a reprieve.

"Perhaps we should call a maid to take the child outside?"

He rang a bell. A maid appeared; this one younger than the one who had serviced Wilhelm's room. By the looks of things she had seen little sleep as well, but her uniform wasn't too wrinkled. Gunter's wife picked up her son and handed him gently to the maid.

"Holger, can you wait outside with this nice lady?" she said.

The child looked hesitant.

"Can you do it for Papa?"

The child nodded resolutely, confirming that he was brave enough to venture out of sight of his mother.

The maid left, closing the door behind her.

Gunter's wife removed her hat and veil and placed them on the desk so she could dab her eyes with a handkerchief. She turned to face him, but did not replace her hat, leaving it on the desk.

"Please continue."

"As I was saying, Frau Dor…."

"Please, call me Evelyn. You make me feel like my oma when you call me that," she said, smiling weakly.

"As you wish, Evelyn."

He cleared his throat before continuing.

"If you'll notice this gondola, you'll see that it is much larger than normal. It can hold its own fighter escorts."

Evelyn's eyes widened in surprise.

"The Godhammer can hold upwards of forty fighters. Don't be alarmed, we had escorts of our own, though we were still outnumbered two-to-one."

They looked at each other in silence.

"Your husband was a brave man. It was an honor to serve under him."

Evelyn nodded her thanks at his praise of her husband.

"How did it end?" she asked, voice cracking.

Wilhelm had a lump in his throat and recounting the events only brought all his grief back to the surface. His eyes misted over. He tried to blink them clear and watched Gunter's plane explode again. He struggled mightily to rein in all his emotions, you know, keeping a stiff upper lip and all the rest, especially since society frowned upon men crying in front of women. And he nearly failed.

"He was in the dead zone behind the zeppelin and firing like mad. His plane was pushed into the range of the guns, but he didn't dive away. He held his plane steady and continued firing."

A tear streaked down Evelyn's cheek. Her hand was at her mouth.

Wilhelm stammered on.

"And then, and then…his plane…it was badly damaged…and it…exploded."

"He fought until the end," he added as if it made a difference.

Evelyn was on the verge of a total breakdown. So was Wilhelm. He opened his arms.

She fell into his embrace and buried her head into his shoulder, releasing all the pent up sorrow in a flood of tears. Wilhelm drew Evelyn close and encircled her with his strong arms. Her entire body convulsed with heart-racking sobs.

He cried too, unable to hold back any longer. For the thousandth time he wished that he could somehow go back in time and undo Gunter's death. Or maybe if his guns hadn't been destroyed, he could have killed the enemy gunners. Or maybe he should have just rammed the zeppelin and sacrificed himself to save Gunter. That and a million other possible outcomes flooded his mind, but did nothing to assuage his terrible sorrow.

Wilhelm eventually stopped, too exhausted to cry anymore. His tear ducts hurt and his eyes felt like sandpaper, raw and gritty. A sudden weakness overtook him and he realized he had not eaten in over twenty for hours, longer even. He was totally sapped of energy, wilting like a dried husk robbed of its nutrients.

But he remained upright because he knew that he had to be strong. If anything, he owed that to Gunter. He knew he must lead the squad as Gunter would have led it.

When Evelyn finally stopped trembling, she lifted her face. She had been crying for over twenty minutes, but her storm of grief had past, at least for the moment. Wilhelm released her and she stepped away.

"Thank you," she said, wiping her face.

For the first time since they had met, Wilhelm noticed that Evelyn was wearing a small green ribbon on her dress. It was identical in color to Gunter's plane.

"Your ribbon?" he asked.

"My favorite color," she replied.

Wilhelm nodded, his opinion of Gunter increasing even more. He was a good man.

"Everything in this room belongs to Gunter. You're welcome to take as much as you like. Do you need any help packing things?"

"No, but thank you for the offer. This is something I would rather do alone."

"I understand." Wilhelm moved to the door.

"If you need anything at all, just ask."

Evelyn sniffed and nodded in affirmation.

Wilhelm closed the door behind him. Holger was sitting in the maid's lap, playing with a toy. He pointed a pudgy finger at Wilhelm.

"Where's Papa?"

He swallowed before answering.

"Your father is flying, Holger, and he has to fly for a very long time."

"When's he coming back?"

"I don't know."

Wilhelm walked away in the direction of his room, intending to go back into hiding. He saw a gang of well-dressed men walking in his direction. _The newspaper men_. Of course. A sudden thought occurred to him. They would need to get Kurt's plane covered up because his absence would eventually be noticed by someone. And Kurt was a hero. Heroes didn't commit suicide.

He turned his feet towards the hangar. One of the newspaper men caught up to him. He had a scraggly beard that only partially disguised his misshapen chin and a pair of small, beady eyes that burned like coals in a boiler. Wilhelm recognized him. Reinholtz.

"I suppose you have some explanation for the terrible bombing of Kronberg? He asked in his thin, nasally voice.

"Go jump in a lake," replied Wilhelm, angrily.

Reinholtz huffed indignantly.

"That mechanic told me the same thing. Now, I find this behavior to be most insulting."

"You should have listened to him," interrupted Wilhelm.

Reinholtz's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. His face flushed, burning with anger.

"You fighter pilots are a most impudent lot," he scowled. "The whole lot of ought to be court martialed for your miserable failing."

Wilhelm spun on his heels, eyes flashing and fists clenched. Reinholtz flinched and jumped back. They stared at each other for a few seconds. An idea sprang into Wilhelm's mind, which was a good thing because he was certain he would have hit Reinholtz.

"I have a man in the mess hall who saw the entire incident. Talk to him. He can provide you with all the information you need."

The newspaper man considered the idea for a brief span of time. His mouth creased into a frown, its natural state.

"I still expect a full report from you, Oberleutnant," he snarled.

Wilhelm didn't reply. He was already walking towards the hangar. The main folding entrance door was closed, but that wouldn't stop people from snooping around inside. Someone could easily recognize Kurt's plane since they all had distinctive paint schemes and eventually the truth would come out. He couldn't allow that to happen.

The icy ground crunched under his boots. The sky was grey and overcast and the sun shone weakly though the cloud cover. The normally boisterous wildlife was eerily silent. Even Mother Nature was in mourning over the death of one of Germania's favored sons.

Reaching the hangar's small side door, Wilhelm kicked away the ice jamming the threshold, and twisted the handle, pushing the door open. The interior of the hangar was warm, like always. He spotted Dredd, who was hard at work repairing Wilhelm's fighter plane. Wilhelm called him over.

"Yes, Master?"

"I'm sure you heard what happened to Kurt."

The mechanic dropped his head. "Yes, a most regrettable situation."

"A tragedy," agreed Wilhelm.

He lowered his voice, his tone serious.

"We can't let the truth out. His plane must be covered up and hidden. We can re-paint it later, when things settle down."

"I thought of the same thing, Master. It's already done." Dredd tossed a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to a biplane shrouded in a thick black cloth. Two burly mechanics sat in front, one smoking and the other polishing a wrench. Both of them looked like they were ready to kill someone.

"Kurt's mechanics," Dredd said by way of explanation. "They'll crack a few skulls before anyone so much as looks at the plane."

Wilhelm nodded.

"Good, I feel like cracking a few skulls myself." Wilhelm continued. "When I write the report for Air Command, I'll say that Kurt was shot down and killed."

"Even if you reported the truth, Air Command would change it for you and make you swear to the report's accuracy. I suppose it is better this way," Dredd replied.

"That it is."

A shout pulled their attention outside. More shouts followed the first one, loud and panicked. The sound of shattering glass reached their ears. Together, they threw open the door and raced outside and into the snow. A gaggle of newspaper men streamed away from the mess hall-Reinholtz in the lead-, pursued by the terrifying form of Otto, his hair all askew and face flushed red with anger. He was hurling empty glass bottles at them, which broke to pieces on the ice.

"You miserable pack of curs!" he bellowed, chucking another bottle, which flew wide of his target. "You killed him!"

Wilhelm and Dredd both sprinted for the drunk and possibly hallucinating pilot, hoping to reach him before he murdered one of the journalists. Part of Wilhelm laughed to see the hated Reinholtz running like a terrified puppy, but a physical altercation was not something he wished to explain to Air Command.

The door to the barracks flew open and Sebastian raced out, making a beeline for Otto.

Good ol' Sebastian, thought Wilhelm.

Sebastian reached Otto first, but the belligerent aviator elbowed his comrade aside. Sebastian stumbled, recovered, and wrapped his arms around Otto's waist, trying to drag him down. Otto was a powerful man, and his strength was buttressed by alcohol. Sebastian slowed, but didn't stop him. He raised another bottle.

Wilhelm grabbed Otto's wrist, halting his arm mid throw. Dredd overestimated his stopping ability, skidded on the ice, and crashed into Otto. All four men tumbled to the cold ground.

Otto's eyes held a wild, feral gleam. Lips curling into a wolfish snarl, he spat hatred at his squad mates and the disappearing press men.

"I'll kill you all!"

"Otto, you're among friends. Nothing to fear."

Otto twisted his arm, forcing Wilhelm to grapple for the bottle to prevent him from throwing it. Wilhelm succeeded, barely. He nearly gagged on Otto's stench-laden breath. The man absolutely reeked of alcohol. Dred grabbed hold of Otto's other arm, pinning him.

"You killed him." Otto spoke the words as if they were a fundamental truth of the universe.

Wilhelm didn't know what universe Otto was living in at the moment, but he knew he had to stop him. Exerting himself, he pried the bottle from Otto's fingers, who was muttering incomprehensible gibberish. Finally, Otto's body went limp. He had fainted.

Two more pilots-Vernen and Fritz- came running up. Wilhelm rolled off of Otto and clambered to his feet. He looked at the new arrivals.

"Take Otto to his room and let him sleep this one off. Don't let anyone disturb him. And don't let him leave his room."

"Yes, sir."

Wilhelm played it off like Otto was drunk, which he was, but he had seen the crazed look in his eyes and knew that the problem was much deeper than that. He had heard of men losing their mind in war, usually over the loss of a comrade or repeated traumatic events, but he had never seen it personally. Perhaps that's what was wrong with Otto. Only time would tell.

But now he had to deal with Reinholtz. Fortunately, the crabby journalist solved his problem for him.

"I'm going to write an article about this flagrant violation of decorum and decency in my paper. Tomorrow I will return and you will explain how you allowed the _Godhammer_ to break through." Reinholtz stared hard at Wilhelm, but he only held the pilot's gaze for a few seconds before he looked down, visibly cowed. His feet crunched on the ice as he walked away. The other newspaper said something to similar effect though with less venom and followed Reinholtz off the field.

After a quick meal of yesterday's bread and a cup of lukewarm coffee, Wilhelm returned to Gunter's office, apologizing profusely to Evelyn for the intrusion, which she forgave. He collected the official stationery and retreated to an auxiliary office to type the official report for Air Command. He called in a secretary to type the report while he dictated it to her. It was tough going, but he had deliberately called the newest secretary at the aerodrome, who wasn't familiar with Gunter and she was able to keep a relatively calm demeanor though she was obviously saddened by the dismal turn of events.

When she finished typing it, Wilhelm affixed his signature in all the necessary places and mailed it off that day. The typist left the office and he found himself standing outside in the snow, mind a blur, thoughts troubled and confused.

A door slammed behind him. Turning, he saw Evelyn struggling with what appeared to be a heavy box. Wilhelm walked over.

"Let me help you with that."

"Thank you," she said, gratefully releasing the box into his arms.

"Is this everything?" he asked.

A sudden flare of pain lit her sapphire eyes. He winced.

"I meant to ask, do you have everything that you wanted?"

"No, she said softly and shaking her head, "I will never have everything I want."

Wilhelm felt like punching himself. He changed the subject.

"Gunter will be buried with full military honors. He…he was an excellent commander and someday I hope to be as good as he was."

Evelyn nodded. They walked on in silence, boots punching through the ice, Evelyn lifting the hem of her dress to avoid soaking it.

They reached the six-legged civilian trolley that would take Evelyn back into town. It was squat, black, smelly, and ugly, but it got the job done. A dozen bench seats provided space for cargo and passengers. A slovenly dressed engineer sat behind the bronze control levers. He was sleeping.

Wilhelm lifted the box into one of the seats and pushed it towards the center so Evelyn would have room to sit. He offered his hand, which Evelyn took, and steadied her as she climbed into the trolley. When Evelyn had situated herself, she leaned down and plucked Holger from the hands of the maid, who had been following them. She sat the child on her lap.

"Thank you," she said to Wilhelm, "for everything."

"You're welcome."

"Where's Papa?" asked Holger.

Evelyn whispered something in his ear and kissed him on the top of his head. Holger nestled into his mother's arms and promptly fell asleep.

The unkempt engineer had woken up. The engine started with a _bang_ and the trolley lurched forward on its spider-like legs. Gradually the stocky appendages built up a steady rhythm and the trolley _clank_ - _clanked_ over the snowy terrain. Wilhelm watched it go until it disappeared over the horizon.

Another bout of absolute bone weariness settled over Wilhelm. He trudged back to his lonely room in the barracks and lay on his bed. He didn't sleep, but it felt good to close his eyes and try to blot out everything else.

The next day Wilhelm called a meeting with the remaining zeppelin jagers. He didn't invite Otto, who was still confined to his quarters. They were a haggard bunch.

Word also came that Wilhelm was being promoted to Hauptmann. Normally, this would have been the cause of much celebration. Wilhelm had never been able to think of a situation where he would have been reluctant to accept a promotion. He had just found one such instance.

"Gentlemen," he began, once everyone had assembled. "This has been a terrible last two days for us. I have received word that Gunter and Kurt will have their funerals together at the Ebbenheim War Memorial Cemetery. The dual funeral will be held tomorrow at ten in the morning."

The dull ache in his heart throbbed unbearably.

"We must give a good showing of ourselves to the public. For Gunter's sake, we have to carry on."

The men nodded at his words.

"And for Kurt too," he added, voice faltering. He cleared his throat noisily.

"And why we are on the subject, look to Otto. I'm sure you all are aware of his _incident_ yesterday. Well, it's the second time I've witnessed such episodes and I believe it's a little more than drunkenness, a lot more in fact."

"In short, Otto is suffering from hallucinations, brought on by grief and alcohol. If we can sober him up, he might return to normal, but right now there is little we can do. Try to go by his room and spend time with him, lest his mind slips away from us. We cannot afford to lose another."

His comrades nodded gravely. No one spoke.

"And though our grief is heavy, we are not alone in our sorrow. Jasta Seven lost five pilots. In many ways their burden is heavier than ours."

Wilhelm dismissed the meeting. Everyone departed their separate ways not speaking a word to each other. He watched them go silently and was soon left alone in his office. He discovered that he was ravenously hungry.

Desiring to quell his hunger, he walked to the mess hall and quickly consumed three sandwiches. He hardly tasted the food, but it sated his appetite.

The door swung open behind him, ushering in a blast of cold air. Sebastian walked in. He took a seat at Wilhelm's table and produced a bottle of schnapps, which he plunked on the table. He poured himself three fingers of the brownish liquid. Swirling it around in his glass, he examined his drink carefully before downing it in one big gulp. He came up sputtering.

"You drink much?" asked Wilhelm.

"It's been awhile," Sebastian replied sheepishly. He cleared his throat.

"I came to tell you that some journalists are here to see you. Reinholtz and all the rest, mad as hornets over yesterday."

Wilhelm allowed himself a brief chuckle.

"Did you see their faces when Otto was chasing them?"

Sebastian laughed softly in reply.

"Eyes as big as dinner plates."

Their laughter died. Wilhelm pushed away from the table.

"I'll talk to them."

Wilhelm left Sebastian alone in the mess hall and stomped into the cold. Winter's icy chill lay heavily upon the base. Icicles hung from the eaves. Snow-a meter thick in some places- blanketed the frozen ground. Drifts had piled up against several of the buildings, rendering the base into something akin to an eskimo camp complete with a circle of igloos. A team of mechanics was hard at work freeing some of the buildings of their icy prison. They had even dragged out an old snow digger built just for the purpose. A cascade of snow and ice was tossed into the air by the machine's spade-handled arms.

The runway was totally icebound, though the steam shovel was trying to carve a small path just in case they had to fly. It was slow going.

Wilhelm could hear Reinholtz's annoying voice, accosting him from across the field. He sighed wearily.

"I hope you have a good explanation for all this! First, you fail to halt the Britannic attacks, which you haven't stopped a bloody lot of them, second, you act very rudely to me and my fellow journalists, and third, you set that attack dog upon us, the big oaf, hoping to scare me away."

Wilhelm stopped walking, forcing Reinholtz to struggle across the ice towards him. The newspaper man almost fell, twice, but he recovered.

"You should be court martialed for your miserable combat record, absolute lack of decorum, and flagrant violation…"

It only took one punch.

Wilhelm belted Reinholtz in the jaw and dropped him to the snow, knocked out cold. The newspaper man landed on his back, eyes lolling in his misshapen skull.

That _hurt_ , but pain had never felt so good.

Two of Reinholt's associates knelt by his side. Their faces were pale and full of fear. "We'll report this to the police," they muttered darkly.

"Do that," replied Wilhelm.

Ignoring their worthless complaints, Wilhelm strode away to Gunter's office. He stopped when he saw the nameplate, which still had Gunter's rank and full name. His commander's plane exploded before his eyes. He pushed the door open.

Dredd followed him in a second later.

"As much as we both enjoyed that, Master, that was not a very good decision. They'll be trouble for sure."

"Bah, let it come. I find that man nauseating. I've had enough of his senseless hate. What does he hope to accomplish anyway? How is he helping the war effort? It's not like we are trying to lose."

Dredd bit his lip.

"You might lose your promotion."

"I never wanted it anyway, at least, not like this."

"Well, when are we going back up?" the mechanic asked.

"Back up?"

"To destroy the Godhammer."

Wilhelm rubbed his chin.

"I haven't really thought about it. We clearly need a new method of attack. And we don't know for sure that Britannia will send her on another bombing raid. They might just keep her holed up until spring. Besides, this snow will keep us grounded for the next few days anyway."

"Well, if it's any comfort to you, Master, I have something that I believe will unlock this puzzle."

"What? A new tactic? A new weapon?"

"I'll tell you when it's finished," Dredd replied mysteriously.

The funeral was held beneath a grey and dreary sky, under a slight, rainy drizzle. Fresh dug earth was piled in a brown semicircle around two open graves. The holes were square sided, dug to precision with a special entrenching machine with unrivalled precision. Flower wreaths and botanical garlands abounded.

Gunter Dormann was well known throughout Germania and people came from all around to pay their respects. The actual ceremony was restricted to a few hundred invited guests, but every policeman inside Ebbenheim was needed to cordon off the massive crowds. If a thief wanted to rob the shops in the city, they could have escaped with the treasure of the entire town because there was no one to stop them. The government had even bused in grey-clad soldiers from a nearby Army base to help with crowd control.

A parade of Army officers honored Gunter's legacy with a long series of speeches, praising his flying ability, military acumen, his dedication to Germania, and his humility. There was a rumor that the Kaiser would attend but he was not present, choosing instead to send the minister of the armed forces as the official Imperial representative.

The zeppelin jagers sat together in their crisp grey uniforms. None of them wept. To do so in public would have been unseemly. Besides, heroes did not mourn, they preserved. They were supposed to inspire others through their stoic example. Even so, the pain was impossible to disguise and showed clearly on their faces.

Nearly every woman in attendance was crying and their anguished sobs punctuated the speeches of the Army officers. No children were allowed, not even Holger. The magnitude of such events was impossible to explain to ones so young.

Finally, it was Wilhelm's turn to speak. He had stayed up most of the night composing speech after speech, but had not picked on one until the half hour before the funeral. Words had always come easily to him; that is until today. Gunter's plane exploded again when he stood up.

He saw Evelyn sitting on the front row, clad in an ankle length black dress with a veil covering her beautiful face. She clasped a wet handkerchief in her small, gloved hands. She swept back her veil for a second, revealing her crystal blue eyes. Their gazes locked for a moment as she silently thanked Wilhelm for what he was about to say. Evelyn dropped the veil.

"People of Germania, we come here today to honor the life and legacy of Gunter Dormann. Having served as his second in command for the past eight months, I can only think of one thing to say. He was the greatest man I have ever known."

Then Wilhelm stepped off the podium and resumed his seat. A hush had fallen over the audience. Most of the crowd had expected him to say something worthy of a hero or to give a long-winded speech on the virtues of sacrifice and duty and to exhort the people of Germania to greater effort. Instead, he had spoken for only a few seconds and in the process turned the longwinded oratory of the other speakers into so much useless drivel.

A few others gave some concluding remarks, but Wilhelm wasn't listening. The funeral ended and the guests filed past the two coffins. Evelyn kissed the foot of her husband's coffin and remained alongside, quietly thanking people for attending. The zeppelin jagers gathered around and each touched the coffin with a trembling hand, then whispered something known only to themselves. They remained behind as well for they had a final roll to play.

When the last of the civilians had exited the cemetery, a salvo of cannon fire rolled across the park. The coffins were lowered slowly into their graves while a fresh blast of cannons boomed every half meter. Each member of the zeppelin jagers was handed a golden spade. Together, they threw in the ceremonial first shovelful of dirt. The frozen clods of soil hitting the coffin sounded exactly like bullets striking a plane. They repeated the action for Kurt's coffin.

Wilhelm felt a sudden twinge of regret over Kurt's death. So much had been made over Gunter's death that Kurt was almost ignored at the funeral, an asterisk at the end, a forgotten face. Even more, Kurt's parents had both been killed in the bombing raid. He wondered if Kurt had any relatives or friends at the funeral besides his mates in the zeppelin jagers.

Wilhelm found that Evelyn was standing next to him. She turned to face him, lifting her veil as she did so.

"Thank you for your kind words, Wilhelm. It means a lot to me," she said softly.

"For Gunter, it was the least I could do."

Evelyn turned to speak to the men.

"I owe you thanks, gentlemen, for your presence today. Gunter would be honored to know that you were here today."

"You're welcome, Frau," they answered more or less in unison. Others simply nodded.

Wilhelm introduced each pilot in turn. Evelyn shook everyone's hand and thanked them individually. She even greeted Otto, who had managed to sober up enough for the funeral. Evelyn's face was strained and she was clearly tired; the last several days must have been draining. Yet through it all, she preserved. Evelyn was a strong woman. Gunter had made a good choice for a wife.

When Wilhelm and his squad mates returned to their aerodrome, the mood had grown somber. Gunter's funeral had dredged up all the partially buried grief over his death. Otto had immediately gone for a drink and Wilhelm had tried to restrain him, but to no avail.

"Would you deny a dying man his medicine?!" Otto screamed at him.

Wilhelm had no answer to that and so he let Otto go. The aviator was back in his own room now, stone drunk and out cold. But so far, he hadn't suffered any more hallucinations.

Two policemen were waiting for Wilhelm in his office.

"And what can I do for you?" he asked nonchalantly.

The men were dour faced and humorless. Must be related to Reinholtz, thought Wilhelm, half-serious. They asked him a battery of questions, had him sign a few papers, and then left without further ado.

He sighed. This could be a problem.

Sebastian came in a few minutes later.

"Good, they didn't arrest you."

Wilhelm grunted. "Not yet anyways."

Sebastian helped himself to a chair.

"So, when are we going back up?"

"I don't know."

Sebastian massaged his shoulder for a brief second, loosening sore muscles. He spoke again.

"All the men have been talking about it. We want to have another go at it." He looked at Wilhelm. "You know, for Gunter. To finish what he started. It would be a fitting epitaph."

"And some good payback."

"Aye, that too."

The door swung open. Vernen and Fritz both walked in, dragging the cold behind them. Even though they couldn't possibly have known what Sebastian and Wilhelm were talking about, Fritz acted like he did.

"We're with Sebastian. Let's take another crack at the Godhammer," said Fritz. Vernen nodded in agreement.

Wilhelm folded his hands together and rested his chin upon them, brow furrowed in thought. "Well, Britannia has to decide to fly it first and I'm not so sure they will do that. They might just pack it up until spring time."

"But if the Godhammer shows itself, will we be ready in time to stop it?"

"Our planes should be ready within the next day or so, but we still need a better attack plan. I don't know if any of you got close enough to see, but Gunter's bullets did next to nothing to that engine."

"Then let's make another attack plan, right now," said Sebastian.

"For Gunter," said Vernen, eyes burning fiercely. Those were the first words Wilhelm had heard Vernen speak in almost a week's time.

"Alright."

Together they looked over the blueprints and design schematics of the _Godhammer_. They discussed every possible angle of attack and every possible weak point. They talked for hours. Sebastian left and returned with some sandwiches, coffee, and a bottle of schnapps, which they shared around.

Fritz proposed an attack on the gondola itself, while Sebastian argued for the tail, but not the engines. Vernen nodded throughout, but said little. Wilhelm though Sebastian's plan had merit, but it was fraught with risk.

"A risk worth taking," replied Sebastian.

They talked into the wee hours of the night before finally retiring. Unfortunately, they were no closer to an attack plan than when they had started.

Wilhelm tried to sleep, but it didn't come easily. He finally drifted off, watching Gunter's plane explode again, and again, and again.

Wilhelm awoke in a tangled knot of words, screaming at Gunter to bail out. Then his eyes popped open and the vision faded. The roaring in his ears died away.

Wilhelm bathed, shaved, and dressed quickly and headed over to his office. He sent a telegram to the aerodrome's of Jasta seven and ten thanking them for their support and requesting it again in the future. He shuffled idly though his notes from the previous night, hoping for some bit of inspiration.

A knock sounded at his door.

"Enter," he said.

The door swung open and Evelyn walked in, chased by the cold. She wore all black as usual, her face veiled.

"Frau Dormann," he began, "Evelyn," he added, correcting himself. "Old habit."

"Wilhelm," she said, greeting him.

"What can I do for you?"

Evelyn looked at her hands for a moment.

"Here," she said, "I made this for you. It was meant for Gunter, but he fell before I could complete it." She was holding a forest green scarf, embroidered in gold thread. Wilhelm's initials had been sewn onto one end of the scarf. "I was able to re-work the letters," she explained. "Gunter would want you to have it."

Wilhelm took the proffered scarf in his hands. It was cool and soft to the touch.

"Thank you, Evelyn. This is fine work. I will wear it whenever I fly in remembrance of Gunter."

He laid the scarf lengthwise on his desk. It would be like a tiny piece of Gunter that he could take with him wherever he went.

Wilhelm thanked her again before she left, leaving him alone in his office. Dredd came in a second later.

"Master, I believe I have found the key to our puzzle."

"If you don't stop speaking in riddles, I will never be able to understand what it is you are doing," said Wilhelm, half in jest.

"An explanation is insufficient. You must see this with your own eyes."

"Very well, take me to this key of yours."

Dredd led Wilhelm back behind one of the large brown hangars that encircled the aerodrome. Several other mechanics were already there and waiting, scarves wrapped around their faces and leather jackets pulled tight against the cold. They stood eagerly alongside stands of white, fresh-cut wood. Each four-legged stand held a black tubular device with shark-like fins protruding from one end. Fuses dangled from the tail end of the black tubes: rockets.

"Taking lessons from Britannia, are we Dredd?" asked Wilhelm. He knew the nation of Britannia used rockets in warfare, but the weapons were difficult to aim and almost as dangerous to the user as its target. And Britannia always fired rockets from the ground. He had never seen them fired from a plane before.

Dredd grunted. "I could teach them a thing or two about rocketry." He nodded to one of the other mechanics, who produced a lighter from his pocket and lit one of the fuses. It burned quickly. Flame, coupled with a bang, leapt from the rocket and it shot away, streaking downrange in a blur of orange and black. The rocket crashed into a snowy hill about one hundred meters away and exploded with a thunderous roar. A sizzling gout of steam boiled up from sublimated snow.

The rocket had flown as straight and true as an arrow. That was not how it should have been.

"How on earth did you guide that missile? Sorcery?" asked an incredulous Wilhelm.

Dredd laughed heartily; the first time he had done so since Gunter's death.

"Magic is for charlatans, Master. Trust in the machine and it will lead you to the truth."

"I told you not to speak in riddles."

In reply, Dredd dug through his pockets and pulled out an object that he kept hidden in his gloved fist. He stretched his hand towards Wilhelm and opened it, splaying his fingers. A small black ball lay in his hand. Various copper wires protruded from the ball. Beneath his handlebar mustache, Dredd was grinning from ear to ear.

"This young Master is called a gyroscope and it has the power to change the face of the war. I've been working on it for nearly a year. I thought now would be a good time to unveil it."

"So, how does it work?

Dredd squinted like a mouse. "Well, that's a wee-bit complicated. You see, this little black ball is like a miniature compass and it keeps the rocket on a true heading, which allows it to fly in a straight line. There's a little more to it than that, but that's the simplest explanation."

Wilhelm nodded, impressed.

"Can you fit this to an airplane?"

Dredd grinned wolfishly.

"Yes, Master. It can be done."

"Excellent. The others must see it. Wait here."

Wilhelm hurriedly rounded up the rest of the staffel. Even Otto managed to stagger drunkenly out of his room though he wasn't happy too about it. They all watched in rapt attention as Dredd fired off two more rockets with similarly destructive results. Melted snow hissed like a nest of angry snakes. Smoke and steam boiled into the sky.

"We can kill the Godhammer with this," said Fritz.

"Wipe out their whole blasted fleet," said Sebastian.

Vernen nodded.

"Your riddle is solved, Dredd, and most ingeniously at that," said Wilhelm.

"Thank you, Master"

The now happy bunch separated. Wilhelm ordered Dredd to outfit their warplanes with as many rockets as possible. He acquiesced with relish, taking a team of mechanics with him. Otto stumbled off to the mess hall and another night of booze while Wilhelm, Sebastian, Fritz, and Vernen retired to Wilhelm's office to plan a new attack plan that incorporated the rockets.

Attacking the gondola still presented an attractive option, but in the end, the engines won out. Just one hit would surely destroy an engine outright. If they could hit the _Godhammer_ with several rockets…

When the planning session ended for the night, their spirits had been lifted immensely. Gunter's death still haunted them, but they had finally been granted a weapon to enact their revenge. If only Gunter could see them now, he would be proud.

Wilhelm was sitting behind his desk, alone and deep in thought. Someone knocked at the door. He bade them enter.

His secretary entered.

"A telegram for you, sir," the woman said, handed him a piece of yellow paper.

He read the message from the commanders of Jasta ten and seven. Jasta ten pledged their support for any further action, but Jasta seven backed out, calling Wilhelm's idea a "fool's errand." That would make breaking through any fighter screen that much harder.

He flipped the paper over and scrawled a hasty message thanking Jasta ten and offering his condolences to Jasta seven for their terrible losses.

"Send this back, please," he said to his secretary.

"Consider it done," she replied. The door slammed shut behind her.

Wilhelm walked back to his room, undressed, and slipped under the covers. He felt more confident than he had in a while. His dreams however did not share in his confidence and when he fell asleep he was screaming at Gunter to bail out.

Something was shaking him. At first, Wilhelm thought it had something to do with his dreams, but then he realized that actual hands were gripping his shoulders and shaking them in an effort to rouse him from his slumber. He fully awoke a second later.

"Sebastian, what is it?" he asked groggily.

"Word from the forward observation posts, sir. They've spotted the Godhammer. She's headed for Kronberg."

Wilhelm was instantly wide awake and alert, a searing jolt of adrenaline burning through his veins. He threw himself out of bed and immediately began tugging on his uniform.

"Are you sure this is correct?"

"Aye, the master scout swore to his reports veracity on his mother's grave."

 _A night attack. This complicated things_.

Wilhelm pulled on his boots.

"Send word to Jasta ten. We'll need their planes."

"Jawohl, Oberleutnant," said Sebastian. He sprinted from the room.

Wilhelm steeped out into the cold winter air. His breath steamed from his mouth. He could already see his pilots assembling near the hangar on the tarmac. The hangar doors were open and light from numerous oil lamps streamed out in columns of hazy gold. Up above, the moon hung full and bright in the night sky. Visibility shouldn't be too much of a problem though there were some scattered clouds.

Dredd emerged out of the lighted hanger.

"Master!" he called. Wilhelm came running over.

"I've equipped each plane with a total of eight rockets. I affixed them to the undersides of your bottom wings. Look at this," he pulled Wilhelm alongside his own plane, gilded silver with blue wingtips. "The fuse wires lead up the side of the fuselage to just underneath the lip of the cockpit. I mounted percussion hammers with a percussion cap on each fuse. Just give the hammers a tap, their spring loaded, and watch it go."

Wilhelm's eyes followed Dredd's verbal instructions.

"Excellent work, Dredd," he said when the mechanic had finished his explanation.

Wilhelm had Dredd explain the rockets and their firing process to the rest of his men. Then Otto staggered up.

"You're drunk!" shouted Wilhelm.

Otto gave a disdainful shrug.

"The wind in my face always sobers me up," he said, words slurring.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Works every time," retorted Otto.

"I hope you're right," Wilhelm said. "Mount up," he added a second later. He needed every pilot he could get his hands on sober or not.

The rest of his men moved to do the same. No briefing was necessary. They already knew the plan: get above the zeppelin and then rain fire and death from above, focusing on the tail. It had to work or Kronberg would just be an ugly smear on the map.

Wilhelm clambered into the cockpit. Gunter's plane exploded before his eyes. He primed the fuel injector on his Griffon and flicked the engaging switch. Cold servos whined, prop stuttering. He re-primed and hit the switch again. The propeller turned over once, twice, and then three times. The engine coughed and started. Smoke burped from the exhaust pipes.

He gently nudged the throttle forward and taxied onto the icy runway. The steam shovel had cleared only a tiny segment of the grass strip, but it was wide enough for a single plane. He carefully lined up the wheels, ran one last diagnostic test and then revved the throttle. His Griffon shot down the runway like a stone from a catapult. A slight pull on the joystick lifted the plane into the air. The ground sank beneath him; silvery moon beams bathed his wings in pale light.

He circled the airfield as he waited for his comrades to take off. He didn't have to wait long. Soon one Griffon became five. The staffel of zeppelin jagers headed south in search of their quarry. They formed into a vee formation with Wilhelm in the lead.

The rockets were heavy on his wings and if they got involved in air-to-air combat, they would be in serious trouble with their sudden loss of maneuverability. The moon painted the surrounding landscape silver and white. Thick snow glistened in the fields below. At the edge of the horizon, Wilhelm could see the blurry edges of the sky-scraping mountains that held the Britannic Army back, at least until the winter season ended. Wilhelm put a hand to his throat and reverently touched the green scarf at his neck.

For Gunter, he thought to himself.

And there it was. The _Godhammer_ sailed pristinely through the sky, glowing ilver like some long-lost jewel. Wilhelm suddenly remembered that Jasta ten was supposed to escort them. He looked around. They were nowhere to be seen.

Forty versus five did not seem like very good odds. Nevertheless, they were already too committed to pull back now, too deep to disengage. This could be a very short sortie.

Black dots began dropping out of the _Godhammer._ The enemy fighters formed up and began flying directly at the zeppelin jagers, planes arranged in several wedges.

Wilhelm tapped the rudder. His plane responded sluggishly. If he could dive under them…

Then something bright and blinding flashed in his peripheral vision to his left, utterly ruining his night vision. A rocket streaked away from Otto's plane. The missile burned in the night, eating up the distance between the two opposing forces in a few soot-scorched seconds. Otto was either the luckiest man alive or his aim was just dead on because the rocket collided straight into the nose of an oncoming fighter, which exploded like a firecracker. Broken like matchsticks, the wings snapped off and fluttered to the ground. The burning hunk of the fuselage and engine broke into several pieces and fell from the sky, trailing fire and smoke.

The enemy reaction was immediate. The wedges split apart, pilots recoiling at the new wonder weapon that could destroy a plane in one shot. A few gaps opened in the Britannic defense.

Then Jasta ten hit the foe like a hurricane. Coming from above and going unnoticed by Britannia and Wilhelm both, the seven pilots of Jasta ten dove upon their enemy, guns crackling. Caught between this new attack and the terrifying new weapons of the zeppelin jagers, the Britannia pilot scattered to the winds.

The path was clear.

"To the engines!" shouted Wilhelm even though no one could hear him.

The _Godhammer_ loomed large in his goggled vision. The engines purred loudly like a lion ready to feast upon its prey. Orange muzzle flashes dotted its hull and spine as the zeppelin jagers flew within range. Bullets hissed in the night air. Spotlights winked on and spun towards the incoming pilots of Germania. The formation split up, weaving around the deadly beams of blinding white light.

The spotlight crews had to be careful lest they blind their own pilots. For a brief second Wilhelm rued his dazzling paint scheme, which flashed in the moonlight like a firebrand. He kicked his rudders, but his plane hardly wriggled. Eight rockets were probably too many.

Otto's black and white Griffon broke away from the pack, banking steeply for the gondola. White cones of incandescent light honed in on the lone flier. Machine guns tracked his progress and fired well-controlled bursts. His plane shuddered under a number of solid hits.

"No!" screamed Wilhelm. He wasn't losing another pilot. Not like this. He pulled a flare pistol from his thigh pocket, pointed it skyward, and pulled the trigger. A blob of startling white zoomed above his plane, meaning _attack with everything you've got_.

Wilhelm jammed his left rudder and rolled, starboard over port. His comrades did the same, mimicking his actions with superb precision. Engines roared in the moonlit darkness.

Otto fired, twice. The first rocket missed completely and passed out of view on the other side of the _Godhammer_. However, the second rocket did not miss and struck the gondola dead amidships. The gondola shook under the explosion, but when the flames cleared it was unharmed. The armour was just too thick.

Not to be deterred, Otto launched two more rockets. His plane leapt noticeably when he fired, freed from the heavy weight of the missiles. He hit the gondola again despite the fact that he knew he couldn't hurt it-even in the best of times; Otto was stubborn as they came- but his next shot smacked into the vulnerable underside of the zeppelin. Silver fabric vaporized in the blast and meters of the stuff was vaporized in every direction by the ravenous orange flames. Unfortunately, the flames died as quickly as they appeared. The hull fabric must have been sheathed in some sort of chemical flame retardant. Otto dove underneath the _Godhammer_.

The rasping hiss of bullets surrounded Wilhelm. Fabric ripped audibly on his plane. A white searchlight shone full in his eyes. Totally blinded, he pushed the stick forward and dropped out of the cone of light though his tail took a pounding in the process. His plane shook under the gees of his stressful dive. Leveling out, Wilhelm made straight for the zeppelin's tail. He needed to end this.

The Brittanic huge numbers advantage was actually working against them. Identification was difficult and with so many friends in the sky, they found themselves chasing their own and spiraling after each other in the darkness.

Wilhelm pointed his nose at the tail of the hulking zeppelin, lining his crosshairs up on one of the engines. He tapped one of the percussion hammers, which struck the percussion cap and lit the fuse. A second later, the rocket ignited, throwing sparks and heat.

His plane lurched hard to the left; the rocket had fired from his right wing and the corresponding drop in weight had affected the balance of his plane. He compensated by tapping on the right rudder pedal, bringing his craft level again.

Propelled forward on a tongue of searing flame, the rocket streaked for the tail with its throbbing engines. It missed. Wilhelm had failed to take the zeppelin's immense speed into account and the rocket flew wide of the tail by a few meters. Caught in the immense backdraft of the propellers, the missile shunted sideways before exploding.

Wilhelm's comrades attacked the length of the zeppelin. Fritz blasted two more holes into the _Godhammer's_ metallic hide; each smoking like dying candles. Vernen missed with his first shot, but his second lodged near the spine. The ensuing explosion tore off pieces of steel rigging and flung them through the air, smoldering and hissing. Sebastian gouged the zeppelin with both of his rocket shots. The zeppelin jagers dove beneath or climbed above the zeppelin, circling around it like fishermen harpooning a whale.

Wilhelm punched another of his percussion hammers-on his left wing to balance the weight- and watched the missile fly away. Unfortunately, the missile corkscrewed like an errant top and dropped below the _Godhammer_ and out of sight.

He jammed his stick forward, forced to dive underneath the zeppelin before he crashed into it. Something must have malfunctioned-the gyroscope probably- and had driven the missile off course. He prayed that the rest of his rockets would fly true.

Suddenly his wings blazed fiercely, illuminated by those accursed searchlights. Bullets followed in their wake. Wilhelm punched the left rudder pedal and dove, then jinked right and climbed, pulling free of the light's arresting glare. With two less missiles, his Griffon was regaining some of its former maneuverability.

Planes buzzed all around, a mass of indistinct blurs in the darkness. Guns barked. A screeching Britannic fighter dove past him, pursuing someone that Wilhelm couldn't see.

He circled.

The _Godhammer_ burned from nearly a dozen gaping wounds, angry scars clawed in its hide. The black dots of tiny figures ran to and fro along the spine, dousing fires and clearing the guns, some of which had been destroyed by rocket hits.

Wilhelm saw Verner below him off his right wing. His comrade's sky blue plane looked silver in the moonlight. A slew of Britannic planes were on his tail, firing like mad. Recognizing that this might be his last chance to hurt the _Godhammer_ , Vernen fired all six of his remaining missiles at once. The sudden weight loss vaulted his plane skyward and out of reach of the enemies guns.

The half dozen missiles struck like a thunderbolt and exploded violently, searing the innards of the mighty zeppelin in a belching lance of flame. The fire-pierced hull shook visibly. A vertical rift stretching the span of the _Godhammer_ vented smoke and fire in great billowing columns. The zeppelin began to descend, trailing smoke and fire.

The _Godhammer_ was wounded.

Wilhelm could feel it in his bones. His comrades could feel and to and pressed home their attack accordingly. Sebastian unloaded his deadly cargo in carefully targeted strikes while Otto dumped his in one colossal burst.

The Brittanic zeppelin floundered in the sky and began losing even more altitude. Otto's attack had ripped another gaping hole in the left side and exposed the airship's vulnerable guts to the vengeful zeppelin jagers. Even Fritz joined in, loosing several plunging rocket attacks.

A Brittanic biplane tumbled past Wilhelm, engine hemorrhaging fuel and wings shredded with bullet holes. It spiraled out of control and dropped out of sight.

By now, the enemy fighters had grown wise to the pilots of Germania and were simply watching to see which fighters were launching rockets and then attacking those since none of the Britannic fighters carried such weapons. They swarmed all around, snapping off volleys of sizzling brass at the zeppelin jagers.

Checking his six, Wilhelm was dismayed to see several Britannic planes lurking there. Their machine guns flashed at him like the eyes of some furious beast. He jammed his rudders and pumped into a shallow dive, but he would have to keep his nose up if he wanted to attack the _Godhammer_. His plane jerked as bullets caught the wings, snaring his maneuver. It was now or never.

Wilhelm pulled up and killed his speed while lining up his crosshairs on one of the four engines mounted on the tail structure. Then he smashed every one of the percussion hammers, utilizing his forearms to fire them all simultaneously.

A second later Wilhelm's plane lurched upward like a butterfly springing from its cocoon. His pursuers adjusted their flight path and climbed after him. Wilhelm's eyes were glued to his missiles. Despite his attempt to fire them all at the same time, they had naturally staggered themselves due to the different burn times of their respective fuses.

The first rocket exploded against the side of the topmost engine on the starboard side, shuddering the entire tail structure. Flames sprouted from the engine. The next five rockets detonated a second later.

Wilhelm was staring straight at the engines and the ensuing explosion wiped out his night version, blotting it out entirely in a flash of white.

One of the propellers cracked and splintered, sheared in half by the force of the blast. The explosion shook the entire zeppelin and a shockwave rippled from stern to bow. The gasoline in the motors cooked off and lit into the hydrogen tanks buried deep inside. There was a colossal _whoosh_ like a giant taking a breath as the fire greedily sucked in the surrounding air. So many things exploded at once that it was impossible to distinguish between the separate blasts and it all sounded like one big detonation.

A ring of fire built up in the stern, feeding off the engine fuel, and then raced to the bow, incinerating the _Godhammer_ in its wake. The zeppelin began to fall, plummeting rapidly like a rock thrown into an ocean and sinking beneath the waves. The Zeppelin burned brighter than a newborn star and the updraft from the heat pushed Wilhelm's plane upward by several hundred meters.

The zeppelin continued to fall, shedding altitude at a precipitous rate. It was all one big ball of fire now. The gunners were dead, bodies turned to ash in a few life altering seconds. Weighed down by the hulking gondola, the _Godhammer_ bowed in on itself, crumpling together like discarded paper.

Bullets zinged his wingtips, reminding Wilhelm that enemy fighters were still on his tail. He kicked his right rudder and rolled, port over starboard, turning a full three barrel rolls before leveling out. Then he pushed his nose over and dove away, freely surrendering his altitude. The Britannic fighters did not pursue, to disheartened over the loss of the _Godhammer_ to continue.

Wilhelm continued his dive, not pulling out until he had dropped one thousand meters. His comrades-in-arms fell into formation alongside him. Behind and below them, the _Godhammer_ still burned.

The gargantuan zeppelin smashed into the snowy ground like a cannonball thrown from the top of a castle. One last, final explosion rent the once mighty airship apart, cleaving the ground the length of the hull, and vaporizing an acres worth of snow in a great hissing pillar of crystallized steam. Like a smothered candle, the fires extinguished themselves. Nothing was left to burn. Only the skeletal remains of the blackened and irrevocably twisted steel frame jutted from the ground.

Only then did the enormity of what they had just accomplished hit Wilhelm. He shouted clear to the heavens.

They had done it.

The zeppelin jagers had destroyed the _Godhammer_ , the mightiest weapon in the Britannic arsenal.

Wilhelm touched the scarf knotted around his neck.

"We did it, Gunter, we did it," he whispered.

Their landing was the sloppiest piece of flying Wilhelm had ever seen, but he didn't care. Planes came down all over the place, skidding to a halt and feathering the engines wherever they happened to touch down.

Unstrapping his safety harness, Wilhelm leapt from the plane. He nearly slipped on the icy ground. Dredd was running full out, sprinting for him.

"We did it, Master!" he shouted in jubilation. "They could see the fire all the way to Kronberg!"

The burly mechanic tried to put the brakes on his running, but he couldn't stop on the ice and he crashed right into Wilhelm, spilling them both to the ground. They came up laughing and helped each other to their feet.

"Oh, I have some other news; it's about Reinholtz," Dredd said.

Wilhelm's heart sank. _Was this really going to happen right now?_

Dredd's face broke into a wide grin, crinkling the corners of his mustache.

"He was arrested yesterday for sedition. It was actually your action that drew the attention of the police to his paper."

Wilhelm laughed aloud, heart suddenly overflowing with joy. This almost gave him as much joy as shooting down the _Godhammer_. Almost.

He clapped Dredd on the back with a gloved hand and then joined in a circle with the other pilots and mechanics. Sebastian, Fritz, Vernen, Otto, who looked more sober than Wilhelm had seen him in years, and even Kurt's mechanics.

Wilhelm spoke to them joyfully in a raised voice.

"Gunter would be pleased at our performance today. And not just the pilots, but everyone here. Dredd, I'm sure the Army will want to look at your new rockets. We couldn't have done it without you."

Dredd grinned from ear to ear and bowed obsequiously.

"For Gunter," said Wilhelm.

"And Kurt," added one of the mechanics.

"And the others."

"For Germania!" finished Sebastian.

The happy band of zeppelin jagers shuffled towards the mess hall, intending to make this a celebration worthy of remembrance. To the east, the sun's golden halo poked over the horizon and smiled down upon the conquering heroes.


End file.
